


love which you can scarcely imagine

by katebishops



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katebishops/pseuds/katebishops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”  –Mary Shelley</p><p>A Steve-centric that follows him on his journey as a scrawny boy in Brooklyn to a soldier in WWII to a man out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love which you can scarcely imagine

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as I read that quote, my mind immediately jumped to Steve Rogers. And then it somehow ended up in me throwing up Steve feels everywhere.
> 
> [Breathes heavily] You'd be surprised with how much research this fic required. That being said, all of it was done on the internet so if there are any factual discrepancies or anachronisms, please let me know and I'll fix them.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

When he was born, he came out the way most people do, red-faced and screaming. His mother, Sarah, had laughed. “He’s got a good set of lungs on him,” she had said. “He’ll be a fighter, for sure.” She was only half correct.

* * *

 

At age three, he had his first major asthma attack. He was in the hospital for two weeks.

* * *

 

At age six, a doctor told his mother he was sorry but there was nothing more he could do. The scarlet fever had won. She cried and stayed at his bedside with an old bucket in case he vomited again and some water for when ( _when_ , she told herself, not _if_. The doctor was wrong, he _had_ to be) her boy woke up with a very sore throat. He did wake up, and his throat was very sore. Sarah felt triumphant and proud when the doctor shook his head in disbelief. Her son was not dying that day.

* * *

 

By the time Steve was seven years old, he had already spent more time in the hospital or with doctors than most people spend throughout their lives. Constantly being ill had caused him to fall behind in school as well. He tried to keep up because he loved to learn. But he missed a lot of school, and even when he was healthy enough to attend he was picked on. Once, a group of boys much bigger than him circled around and threw his sketchbook in a puddle. He had tried very hard not to cry – that sketchbook was a Christmas present from his ma and he knew how long she’d had to save up to buy it for him. They had been angry at him for telling them off because they liked calling Aaron Goldhirsch cruel names because of his heritage. Steve did not like that.

Despite the occasional bullies, he enjoyed going to school. He had a handful of friends that he liked talking to before school about the Dodgers and other such subjects. Sure, it bothered him that almost all of the other kids invited friends over after school or played together on the weekends and no one asked him. But he spent that time helping his ma, or sketching, or sitting on the roof enjoying the stars until it got too cold, so he convinced himself it was okay that he didn’t have a “best” friend; he was fine with having friends who only seemed interested in spending time with him at school but not outside of school. Most of the time, it worked. Besides, he didn't want his ma to worry that he was lonely. She worried enough about him, between the fights and the health problems, and he didn't like that the pre-mature gray hairs and lines around her face were because of him. She told him over and over he was a blessing to her life; she couldn't have asked for a better child. But Steve privately disagreed. His dad had been killed by mustard gas in the Great War. That made Sarah a single mother, which was hard enough without her fussing over a black eye or staying up late to figure out their finances after a particularly bad illness that required an expensive stay in the hospital. He figured the last thing she needed was another thing to fret over her son about.

* * *

 

One hot, muggy day in May of 1930 when Steve was eleven, near the end of school, Steve started walking home – by himself, as usual. He told himself it didn’t matter if one of the boys in his class lived right across the hall from him and still refused to walk home with him, even when Steve offered him a shy smile and a polite invitation.  _I like the quiet_ , he thought to himself.  _Having someone come along would make it noisy_. He stopped for a minute, and listened. There were distant sounds of construction workers shouting. A few dogs barked at the honking cars in the street. Vendors loudly advertised their wares and women's shoes rhythmically made a clicking noise on the pavement. Brooklyn during a summer afternoon was anything but quiet. He sighed and continued walking. His twelfth birthday was coming up, and despite the economic crash last October his mother had picked up a few extra shifts at the hospital. That meant they had enough money to celebrate. He idly kicked a rock. He hoped they could go to Coney Island. He had never been, but a lot of the children at school had and it sounded like a lot of fun.

“Hey, Mick!” A voice shouted behind him. Steve sighed. He recognized that voice. It was Charles Stubson, a boy who was a grade above of Steve. He was one of the boys who had so carelessly thrown his sketchbook on the muddy, watery ground nearly three years ago. He and his buddies left Steve alone for the most part, unless he was directly antagonizing them. But sometimes they got bored and decided to pick on him for the hell of it. He knew he was an easy target; he was a very small boy, even for his age, and he was all by himself.

The voice got louder. “Hey there, Mickey Finn, why’re you ignoring me? I just wanted to talk,” he said, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulder. He tried not to roll his eyes. Charles never wanted to just talk, especially not with someone of Irish decent. He had as many ethnic prejudices as Steve had medical afflictions.

“Yeah, Mick,” jeered another boy. Steve thought his name was Will but wasn’t completely sure. It didn’t really matter either way, he supposed. He was going to get beat up regardless. Will shoved Steve in the side, making him stumble and fall down. “We’re just here to spend some quality time with our favorite friend!” The other boys laughed. Charles was the leader, but Will was second-in-command.

Steve got up and brushed the dirt off of him. “Leave me alone,” he muttered. He didn’t want to get in a fight, he really didn’t. His ma would be so upset. At least with his other fights, she understood his reasoning behind them (“ _but Ma, you shoulda heard what they were sayin’_ _about that girl_!”). “My brave little boy,” she would say in a low, soothing voice, stroking his hair. “Always standing up for the underdog. You make me so proud.”

But this? This would be for no reason other than a group of bullies wanted to hurt someone they knew couldn’t win in a fight against them. The cowards relied on unfair odds, he thought viciously. He didn’t want her to reconsider sending him to public school because he got beat up. She had talked about homeschooling or maybe a private tutor in the past, but he had insisted that she should spend her days in the hospital, helping people, not teaching her son. And a private tutor was much too expensive. He’d rather learn arithmetic and poetry for free and occasionally get harassed than watch his ma work herself into an early grave to pay for his education.

Soon enough, the first fist came swinging at him. He got hit in the ribs and doubled over, wheezing. After that, he felt another boy kick at his legs and fell to the ground. He knew the best thing to do was stay down and they would leave him alone quickly. It would be self-preservation.

Let it be said that Steven Grant Rogers is good at a lot of things, but self-preservation is not one of them.

He got up and sent his fist swinging, right into Will’s cheek. It felt satisfying, until the other boys decided to avenge Will’s bruised face. Once again, he refused to stay down. He didn’t want them to think they could get away with this all the time. Not standing up to them would only increase the frequencies of these attacks, not just on him but on other boys too. He got a punch right in the eye and knew there was no hiding this from Sarah. He punched one of the other boys in retaliation.

“Hey, hey, HEY! What d’ya think you’re doin’?” An unfamiliar voice interrupted the fight.

“Leave it alone, Bucky,” said Charles dismissively. “This isn’t none of your business. He’s just a Mack.”

The new boy gave him a steely glare. “You keep on hittin’ that kid an’ I’ll mangle up your brand new bicycle.”

Charles gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Y’wanna test that out?”

“C’mon, guys, let’s go,” he muttered angrily. “This fight wasn’t even that fun anyway.” He stopped just in time to kick Steve one last time. “Punk,” he spat.

A few seconds after they had ran away, the boy crouched down beside Steve. He looked up at him. He was bigger and probably a few years older than Steve, and had the handsomest blue eyes Steve had ever seen. It took him a minute to realize he was talking to him.

“I mean, they’re all a couple of jerks anyway,” he was saying. “An’ I know it’s not your fault they like to pick on people, but Jesus, why didn’t you stay down? They woulda left you alone a lot sooner if you had. It woulda been the smart thing to do.”

Steve got up, pointedly ignoring the hand the boy outstretched. “You’re the jerk,” he said, picking up his books and turning to leave. His eye smarted. Hell, most of him smarted. He wanted to get home to clean up and put something cold on his bruises before his ma got home from work. He knew she’d see the bruises, but at least he could prevent her from seeing them bloody and swollen. “I had ‘em on the ropes.”

To his surprise, the boy laughed. “I like you,” he declared. “My name’s Bucky and I’m gonna walk home with you to make sure you don’t beat up any other helpless boys, you punk.” He winked charmingly.

Steve found himself smiling back against his will. “I’m Steve,” he said. “And if you don’t watch your mouth, I’ll just beat you up next, jerk.”

* * *

 

By the time he turned twelve, Steve was proud to say he did had a best friend. He had someone to see on weekends. He had someone to sit on the roof with and watch the stars, until it got too cold (usually Bucky told him to go inside before it even got too cold, but Bucky went inside with him so it was okay). He had someone who would come over after school. Sometimes they went over to Bucky’s, but Bucky said he preferred Steve’s empty apartment to the hectic noise of younger siblings at home and Steve was just happy to be with Bucky, wherever they went. When school ended, Bucky spent almost all his time with Steve, even though Steve knew he was a popular boy. He asked him one day, a few days before his birthday, why he wanted to hang out with him so much. Bucky had looked at him with a confused look on his face and asked if Steve didn’t want to be his friend anymore.

“Of course I do!” he assured the older boy quickly. “It’s just; I know you have a lot of friends and besides,” he mumbled. “I doubt you wanna spend all your time with a sickly asthmatic that’s a grade below you. It’s embarrassing for you. And we can’t even play ball together, like you could with your other friends.”

Bucky had looked horrified for a moment, and then schooled his face into a neutral expression. “Steve,” he said quietly. “I don’t ever wanna hear you talk bad about yourself again. You’re my best friend, I wanna be with you all the time, and I don’t give a damn about not being able to play ball or what my other friends think. I could never be embarrassed to be seen with you. An’ if they’ve got a problem with you, then they’re not my real friend anyway.”

Steve looked at him, sunlight glinting off of his beautiful, thick hair and felt awestruck at his friend’s devotion. He had always assumed he cared more about Bucky and was more invested in their friendship than Bucky, but he realized how completely wrong he had been.

“Besides,” Bucky continued loudly. “Someone’s gotta keep a punk like you in line.” He ruffled his hair and draped an arm across his thin shoulders.

Steve laughed, and unknowingly fell just a little bit in love with him.

* * *

 

When he was fifteen and Bucky was turning sixteen, they went to Coney Island for his birthday. March wasn’t the best time, the weather wasn’t ideal and they had to wear warm jackets (Bucky insisted Steve brought gloves, too). Most of the vendors were in a bad mood from the light rain and to top it all off, Steve threw up almost as soon as he got off the Cyclone. He tried to apologize for ruining Bucky’s big day, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“This is one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had,” he declared.

* * *

 

Later that year, when Steve’s birthday rolled around, they wordlessly agreed to not do Coney Island. Instead, they sat on the fire escape all day while Sarah was at work, just talking and laughing and teasing each other. When the sun went down, they went on the roof with a bottle of moonshine to watch the fireworks. At that point, Sarah got home from work and called them down so they could celebrate together. She’d made him a chocolate cake this year. Right before he was about to climb down, Steve felt Bucky’s hands on his face and the briefest pressure against his lips.

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” he whispered. “Hope yours is as good as mine was.”

Steve tried not to freak out over the fact that his best friend in the entire world, about whom Steve kept having more and more not-very-platonic thoughts about, had just kissed him. He was proud of how calm he remained on the surface. “You never told me what made your birthday so good,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice. “It was cold and it rained and I upchucked everywhere.”

“So?” he chuckled. “I got to spend the whole day with my best guy.”

Steve wanted to say something else, but Sarah called again and before he knew it, Bucky had climbed down off the roof and onto the fire escape, holding his arms up to catch Steve like he always did, no matter how much he insisted he didn’t need it. This time, when Steve was in his arms, he held onto his skinny body.

“What’re you doing?” Steve hissed.

“Relax,” he murmured in reply. “Your mom’s in the kitchen, she can’t see out here. I just wanted to hold onto you for a bit is all.”

“Oh,” Steve said, surprised. “Well, that’s alright then.” Bucky flashed him a blinding grin that he found himself immediately returning.

* * *

 

Steve was eighteen when he became an orphan. Sarah had worked too many shifts in the TB ward and succumbed herself. The first night he went to bed in the cold, empty apartment, he didn’t sleep a wink. It felt so wrong to be without his ma. Sure, she had spent the last few weeks in the hospital, but even when he went home at night he knew he could see her the next day. Now she was just…gone. He felt hollow inside. He turned over, buried his face in his pillow, and let the tears leak out. He had cried himself into an asthma attack when she first died, so he tried to keep his tears under control. The last thing Bucky needed was to find his dead friend’s body only days after Sarah died. Sarah and Bucky had been close; they adored each other. She loved the way he watched out for her only child, whether it was chasing off a bully who was hitting him or making sure he took his medicine and bundled up in the cold. Bucky told Steve that she had felt like a second mom to him. He was plenty torn up by her death, but he tried to keep it together and stay strong for Steve. The blonde knew this and wanted to be angry, but was too strung out by his grief to even care about Bucky’s stupid macho act.

He tossed and turned almost every night from then on, until finally a month after his ma’s death Bucky confronted him. “Look, Steve,” he said. “You can’t keep on like this. You’re getting tireder and tireder every day. You’re gonna lose your job, and then how’ll you pay rent?”

Steve sighed. “I know, I know,” he said. “I’ll go to bed earlier, Buck.”

“That’s not enough!” he said, frustrated. “We both know you could go to bed as soon as you get home from work and not get any sleep. You ain’t sleepin’ and forget losin’ your job, you could get sick.”

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he said bitterly.

“Steve, stop it.” Bucky said sternly. “You aren’t taking this seriously and you need to.”

Steve ignored him and went through the window onto the fire escape. He climbed up onto the roof, Bucky following closely behind him.

“Look, I didn’t mean t’make ya mad, Stevie,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you, y’know? You’re my best friend in the entire world.”

Steve said nothing. He figured if Bucky could kiss him on his birthday and say nothing about it for two years, he could sit there angrily and not open his damn mouth.

“Hey, how’s about this?” Bucky asked excitedly, as if he had just gotten an idea. In reality, he had been planning and fretting over and considering this idea for months now. “You and I move in together, huh? We could get our own place, jus’ you an’ me.”

“You just want to keep a closer eye on me.”

“Well, maybe, but hey!” he tried to make it sound like Steve would be doing him a favor. “Lord knows I need a break from my little sisters, and we’re both adults. We don’t hafta,” he had been about to say “live with our parents anymore” but wisely stopped himself at the last second. That would not be a good word choice at this moment. “We don’t hafta do this if you don’t want to, but it’d be real swell.”

Steve considered it for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.

They went to look around at open apartments the next week. They finally found one that wasn’t too bad and best of all, was affordable. It would be drafty in the winter, but the walls were still sturdier than anything else in their price range. It had a kitchen and living room connected, with a table between them. Steve assumed that was supposed to be the dining area. The bathrooms were down the hall, but at least they were on the same story. Getting out of breath over climbing stairs in the middle of the night because he had to take a whiz wasn’t something he wanted to do.

“Look, it even has a working stove and everything!” the older man cried excitedly. “We gotta get this, Stevie, it’s perfect.”

“Buck,” he said. He felt the need to point out what should’ve been immediately obvious to Bucky that would make him not want it. “It’s great and all, but…it’s only got one bedroom.”

“So? We can share.”

“Buck, it’s only got one _bed_. And we can’t afford another one.”

Bucky seemed determined to look anywhere but at Steve. “Ah, who cares,” he said. His voice sounded strange and Steve couldn’t interpret the expression on his face. “We can make it work. We’ll just tell the landlord we’re gonna buy another and no one’ll bother us. Let’s take it!” Before the blonde could say any more, his friend had bustled out to talk to the landlord about renting it.

The first night in their new apartment was pleasant. Steve cooked, Bucky cleaned the dishes, and they spent the time after dinner together in the living room. Steve was drawing in his sketchbook again and Bucky simply lay down on the couch and tossed a cloth sack full of rice to himself over and over. Finally, the both of them could feel themselves yawning.

“We should go to bed,” Steve mumbled, his face turning red. Bucky made a noise of affirmation and they put on their pajamas. Then came the moment to decide what to do about sharing a bed. Steve felt very awkward, but Bucky seemed to have no such reservations. He climbed under the covers and as soon as Steve followed suit, he wrapped his arms around his skinny body.

“Buck–”

“We’re just savin’ space here, Stevie, bed’s not big enough for us to lie side by side. ‘Sides, I’m gettin’ kinda cold, ain’t you? Now stop worrying and get some rest, punk.”

“Fine. Jerk.”

The next morning, when Steve woke up, he found they had shifted during the night so they were spooning. The even more interesting discovery was Bucky’s morning wood, pressed into his ass. He knew it was a natural reaction, but still, he couldn’t resist wiggling back a little. Bucky made a sleepy noise and rubbed his erection against Steve’s ass again. Steve repeated the action and Bucky did the same, except this time he let out a tiny moan. There was no denying that it was Steve’s name. A few seconds later, he seemed to wake up and realize what he was doing. He sat up. “Shit, sorry Steve, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just–”

Steve just grinned. “Jesus, Buck, why didn’t you ever say anything before?”

“I didn’t want to assume anything,” he said.

“You jerk,” the small man teased. Before Bucky knew what was going on, Steve had surged up and pressed his lips insistently against Bucky’s. His hand drifted down to stroke Bucky through his pajamas. “You should’ve said something.”

* * *

 

He was twenty three when he got really sick, sicker than he normally did. He remembered collapsing at work, his last thought being “But we’re not gonna make rent if I don’t work”, but nothing else until he woke up to Bucky’s worried face. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Bucky ran to get him a glass of water.

Once he had drunk the water, he asked in a raspy voice, “How long was I sleepin’ for?” Bucky leaned forward and kissed him briefly, and then not so briefly. Finally he pulled away, worried about his friend’s lungs.

“It was real bad this time,” he admitted, looking like he was going to cry. But that couldn’t be right, Steve told himself, because Bucky didn’t cry. “You were out for five days. The doctors said there…” he broke off for a minute to collect himself. “They said there was nothing they could go. Father Henry offered to read your last rites, but I wouldn’t let him. And that was all, until your stubborn punk ass decided to stick around for a little while longer. Just like I knew you would.” That wasn’t all, though. There was another shadow in his eyes that Steve couldn’t decipher.

“What else?” Steve asked gently. “There’s something else, I know there is.” Bucky took a deep breath and began explaining that two days ago, on December 7th, the president had issued a special radio announcement. America had been attacked and now she was going to war.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Bucky interrupted. “And no, you can’t enlist.”

“What do you mean I can’t enlist?” Steve asked, outraged. “You’re not my mother, you can’t stop me from enlisting. I have to.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky said, broken. And then he began crying, great big tears rolling down his face. Steve was too stunned to say anything. He tried again. “Steve, you just nearly died. Because it was too cold out. What do you think is gonna happen to you if spend a winter in a ditch somewhere in France, or on an island in the Pacific that’s full of disease?”

Steve knew he had a point. Steve also knew he wanted to enlist. “So what? There are plennya men who’re goin’ to fight, and they’re gonna be in the same shitty place that I would be. Why do they get to lay down their lives but not me? What makes me so special?”

“What makes you so special?” Bucky roared. “You’re – I mean – because, well, look at you!”

“So I’m too weak, that’s what you’re saying,” Steve said bitterly.

“I’m sayin’ that someone as nice, and wholesome, and selfless as you shouldn’t waste your life in a war. You’re too _good_ ,” Bucky said.

Steve wanted to argue back, but he was getting exhausted already. Bucky could tell, too, but thankfully didn’t say anything about his recent illness. He knew that’d just make Steve even madder at him. 

“How’s about you go to bed, huh?” he said softly. “It’s nighttime anyway, everyone else is asleep.”

“Fine,” the tiny blonde huffed. “But we’re not done with this.”

“Okay, okay,” the older boy responded. “We’ll talk about it later. But for now, the both of us need sleep.” Steve held up the covers for him so he could slide inside and wrap his arms around Steve. They had another mattress, but even when they were mad at each other they couldn’t bear to sleep apart. Partially because it was too cold to sleep alone, and partially because neither of them wanted to sleep alone. They drifted off to sleep, each dreaming of war.

* * *

 

 When Steve was twenty four, his best friend was sent to war. They had spent the night before he left for boot camp frantically clinging on to each other. They barely slept that night; they spent it soaking the sheets with sweat and whispering frantic promises to each other. That was only before a few weeks of boot camp.

When Bucky got his orders, they studiously avoided talking about it until the last night when they knew they couldn’t avoid it any longer. Bucky came in after he finally dropped the two girls off at home to find Steve naked in bed. Wordlessly, he took off his uniform, being careful to fold it and keep it somewhere clean. Then he got into bed on top of Steve, holding him in his arms. Steve leaned up to kiss him while sneaking one hand down to Bucky’s cock, stroking slowly but firmly.

“You’ll come back,” he said, like there was no question he couldn’t. He also was careful not to mention what had happened to him after he had ditched the date; his 1A form was hidden in a kitchen cabinet. He didn’t care about that at the moment. All he cared about was the harsh truth that the man he loved was going to a war he likely might not survive.

“Course I will,” Bucky murmured back, stroking his face. “Can’t leave my fella all by his lonesome.” Steve swallowed back a sob. “D’ya want–”

He didn’t even finish before Steve nodded. “Yes, yes, anything, god, whatever you want.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky whispered. “I want to feel you during the entire trip to England.” He grabbed a jar of Vaseline they kept on their bedside table. “Should I open myself up, or…oh, _fuck_ , that’s nice. Oh, baby, you treat me so good.”

“Let me do it,” he whispered against Bucky’s lips. He dipped one finger in the Vaseline until Bucky gave him a look. “Okay, okay, more,” he chuckled. He dipped three fingers in and then reached back and teased Bucky’s asshole by rubbing one finger near the entrance.

“C’mon, Stevie, just put ‘em in already, baby,” he groaned. Steve abruptly put two in, all the way to the knuckle. Bucky gasped and his hips started moving without him even noticing. “Yess, babydoll, yes, keep doing that,” he broke off when Steve scissored his fingers and soon added the third. He started stroking Bucky’s prostate. “You keep that up, this’ll be over before it starts,” he complained.

“Alright, just slick me up then.” Bucky grabbed a decent amount of Vaseline on his hand and started stroking Steve’s cock while Steve’s fingers continued to stroke inside of him. “Shh, gotta be quiet, sweetheart, these walls aren’t that thick,” he warned. Bucky threw his head back and moaned.

“Don’t care what they say, baby, tonight is ours and we’re here and that’s all that matters, Stevie, oh god love you so much,” he said in a breathless voice. He turned them over so Steve was on top and then spread his legs. “C’mon, get in me already doll, need you so much.”

Steve pushed in slowly, inch by inch, not quickly like he had done with his fingers. Finally, he was all the way in. He rested there for a minute, dropping his forehead on Bucky’s, until Bucky started whimpering and he began to move his hips.

“You feel so good, Buck,” he whispered, kissing along his jawline up to his ear and then gently biting his earlobe. “You’re so good for me, always so perfect.”  He felt himself slipping closer and closer to the edge, and judging by the look on Bucky’s face, he was getting close too. He began to move his hips faster, snapping in and out with a pace that was almost brutal. He knew Bucky liked it though, knew he wanted it hard tonight. Otherwise he would’ve stopped in an instant. He felt Bucky’s fingers, still slick with Vaseline from when he prepped Steve’s cock, stroking around his hole. He slowly slid one finger in and that set Steve off, before he knew it he was groaning Bucky’s name and coming harder than he ever remembered coming before.

“God, Buck. I love you so much. Always have, always will.” That seemed to set Bucky off and he soon followed Steve into the bliss of orgasm. After they had had a minute to catch their breath (Bucky always worrying about Steve’s asthma), Steve got up to find a clean shirt to wipe them off. He discarded the shirt and curled up, still naked, into Bucky’s arms

The next morning, he dreamed about a light pressure on his lips. But when he woke up, the apartment was empty. Steve didn’t see the use in sitting around and moping. Soon enough, he’d be in boot camp himself.

 

Boot camp was just as brutal as he’d expected, if not more. The best part of it though was undoubtedly Peggy Carter. From the minute he saw her take down Hodge, he knew he wanted to get to know her better. From what he knew, she was charming and witty, didn’t put up with bullshit, and worked harder than any of the men there. Miraculously, she seemed to like him despite his scrawny figure and how he could never keep up with the other men. He couldn’t tell for sure, because he knew officers weren’t supposed to blatantly play favorites, but he noticed her watching him out of the corner of her eye and smiling a few times. After six weeks of hell, his pitiful efforts seemed to pay off. Dr. Erskine told him he was the prime candidate for the procedure and would be receiving it within the week.

Steve liked Abraham Erskine. He felt bad about immediately assuming the worst upon their first meeting because of his accent. He was a kind man who was one of the very few people in live who had ever believed in Steve.  After the painful procedure was over, watching the man bleed out on the floor felt like someone ripping out his heart and stepping on it.

 

“So,” Peggy said, the night after Steve became huge and Erskine was murdered and he chased down a Nazi. “That machine sounded pretty painful.” She stood in the doorway of the room the SSR had put him in for the night, looking beautiful as always with her impeccably coiffed hair and bright red lipstick.

“Oh, yeah, that,” Steve said offhandedly. He waved his hand to invite her in, but she didn’t sit down. She stood in front of him with a raised eyebrow. He felt bad for not giving her his full attention but was understandably distracted.

“ _Oh, yeah, that,_ ” she mimicked. “Dismissing it like it was a bee sting. You were screaming, Steve. It sounded very painful.”

He shrugged and gave her a half-hearted grin. “I had to go through with it, right? They need a super soldier and I want to do what’s right.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “You are not like anyone I have ever met,” she said.

“Yeah, my ma always said I was different. Made making friends real hard; kids didn’t really like me.”

“I meant that as a compliment,” she responded in her crisp, British accent. “You’re a very brave man, Steve, you have been since the day I met you. I am glad Erskine convinced the Colonel to give you the serum. You deserve it more than anyone.” With that, she turned on her heel and left the room he was staying in. He sat there for a very long time, trying to figure out what had just happened.

 

He spent a fair amount of time on the USO tour thinking about Peggy. He missed her. He also missed Bucky and wrote him almost every chance he got. He deliberately kept his letters vague and convinced the postmaster to send them through with the Brooklyn address. Bucky would get suspicious if he saw mail coming in from Milwaukee one week and Chicago the next. He was back to feeling like a lonely little boy. Sure, people wanted to shake his hand and take pictures with him, and the dancers seemed to like him alright, but no one wanted to really talk to him or ask him how he was doing. When he finally got to go to Europe, it was once again as a dancing monkey and not a real soldier like he had been promised by Erskine back at the World Fair, all those months ago.

Looking back, he was glad he went to Europe even if originally he was upset about only going to do his routine. He got to see Peggy again and he saved Bucky’s life. He also made friends with the all of the Howling Commandos; they would sit around the campfire and complain about military food and laugh at funny stories together. He had never had so many good friends before.

Not to say he was having fun, exactly. He was at war. Even worse (in his mind) was Bucky’s new attitude. He seemed distant. At first, Steve chalked that up to being a POW and tried to respect his wishes for privacy. But eventually he could see that he was being deliberately avoided by his best friend. Sure, Bucky told embarrassing childhood stories around the campfire and talked strategy with him, but he never wanted alone time for just the two of them. Finally, on a cold day in November, Steve had had enough.

“What is your problem?” he demanded, storming into Bucky’s tent. The other men were either on patrol or at a nearby house they had found, trying to charm the French daughters.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bucky said, not looking at him.

“ _That_!” he cried. “That is exactly what I mean. You won’t look at me, you don’t wanna talk one-on-one unless it’s about Hydra, and you don’t…” he sighed. “You haven’t touched me in months, Buck.”

“We’re at war. We can’t afford to get court martialed. ‘Sides, you got Agent Carter now.” He said in a dull, emotionless voice.

“Are you – okay, you’re serious. You’re serious?”

Bucky shrugged, trying to look indifferent. “She’s a swell dame, Steve, anyone would be lucky to have her and what’s more than that, she seems to like your ugly mug back. You can marry her.” He gave a short, bitter laugh that Steve never wanted to hear again.

“Bucky, listen to me,” he said, crouching down and taking his hands. It was still disconcerting to realize his hands were bigger than Bucky’s now. “You’re right, Peggy’s real swell. But,” he said sternly when Bucky turned his head at that. “She’s not you.”

“What?” Bucky turned his head to look at him, a faint trace of hope in his eyes.

“I like Peggy a lot, Buck, I’m not gonna lie. She’s a fantastic lady. And if I weren’t completely in love with you yeah, maybe I’d think about marriage. But don’t you get it?” he asked desperately, willing him to understand. “I told you the night you shipped out, I’ve always loved you and _I always will_.”

Suddenly his arms were full of squirming soldier and his lips were being crushed against Bucky’s. “Steve, oh Stevie, I’m so sorry, I was so jealous and angry and I was just such an idiot. Oh god help me, I love you too.”

“Shh, don’t apologize,” he said as the kissing became gentler and lighter. He reached one hand up to stroke Bucky’s hair back. “I’m sorry it took me so long to talk to you about this. We were both idiots.”

Bucky cracked a grin. “Nothin’ new there, Steve.”

From then on, they continued their relationship. They had to be even more careful than they had in Brooklyn and didn’t get to touch each other much, but just knowing they still loved each other was enough.

* * *

 

His twenty sixth year was going pretty well for him. He had a group of friends, he got to see Peggy every so often, and he was taking down Hydra.

Until, of course, he was ordered to take Gabe and Bucky and grab Zola from his train. After that, his life became dull and sad. As his plane sped down into the water, Peggy’s voice pleading with him over the radio, his last thought was that this wasn’t how he wanted to go but at least he could see Bucky and his ma again.

* * *

 

When he was both twenty six and ninety four years old, he was even lonelier than he had been as a child. He was stuck in a world that confused him, all by himself. Sixty six years had passed, yet Steve had only been mourning Bucky for about two weeks. He had even less time than that to reconcile the fact that Peggy, who to him looked vibrant and bright and full of energy only a day previously, was old and tired and wrinkled. He didn’t go and see her for the first few months, even though one of the first things he had done in 2011 was to check if she was still alive. He knew she was in a nursing home in Washington, DC, yet he couldn’t bear to go see her. He kept telling himself to stop being selfish and go see her. She would’ve surely heard the news of his return and wondered why he hadn’t come to see her. As time passed, he felt guiltier and guiltier until he finally made the trip.

 It turned out all that nervousness was for nothing because she had not heard of his return. More accurately, she had heard and then promptly forgotten. They talked for hours and he often had to repeat himself; not that he minded at all. He smiled gently at her disbelieving face and explained the story of having been frozen at least three times, holding her hand and stroking the back of it with his thumb.  After a while, she became weak and exhausted by all the activity. When she fell asleep, he was still holding her hand.

He cried the entire ride home.

* * *

 

He was ninety five when he was called upon because the earth was about to be attacked by an alien force. All because of the damn Tesseract that people just couldn’t seem to leave alone. He was angry, even angrier than he had been when he first woke up, because he had told Stark (whose son was on his team, how was that for irony) and Colonel Philips that if they ever recovered it from the Red Skull they should leave it alone. No one needed that kind of power.

The first thing he did once Loki was back on Asgard was to go straight from New York to DC to tell Peggy about everything that had happened. Her son was just leaving the room as he came in and told Steve she was very tired. He went in anyway and found her sound asleep. He pulled up the chair, took her hand, and told her all about Loki and the Chitauri anyway. He left before she woke.

* * *

 

He was nearing ninety six while still only being twenty eight, and he felt okay about the modern world. He wouldn’t call himself happy, not by any stretch. But he had a decent job and coworkers he liked (even if Nat kept telling that fossil joke, it wasn’t even funny the first time) and sometimes hung out with. He still missed Bucky like crazy. Still missed his ma, too. He figured some hurts never, ever go away. He found himself unexpectedly missing her at the tiniest things. Once, while he was out jogging, he saw an advertisement about pantyhose. He remembered with fondness her constant complaints that her nylons had tears in them, her Irish temper flared while she ranted about _“Who would make such inadequate clothing? This is the fourth run I’ve found this month!”_ He had to swallow the lump in his throat and tear his eyes away from the ad before finishing his workout.

One day in the spring, while on his morning run, he found another runner out as early as him and decided to mess with him a little. That turned out to be one of the best decisions he had ever made and it gained him one of the best friends he had ever had. Sam willingly let him and an unknown woman hide out in his home, and on top of that, he cooked them omelets with sausage and green peppers.

It was also at this time that Steve found his best friend that he had spent three years grieving for was alive, although it was debatable whether Bucky was living or not. He felt torn between wishing Bucky had died from that fall, so he wouldn’t have had to endure decades of torture, and being glad he did because that meant he was still alive and well in the twenty first century. Both of these thoughts made him feel incredibly guilty (and nauseous).  

On his ninety sixth birthday, Stark threw him a big party at Avengers Tower. He enjoyed himself and was touched by Tony’s thoughtfulness, but couldn’t help remembering a birthday from years past, with illegal moonshine and the softest, gentlest kiss he had ever experienced. He swore to himself that he would find Bucky and help him at all costs, even more vehemently than when he had vowed himself the same thing directly after the disaster in the Potomac. He ended up leaving the party, even though he had been invited to stay the night on his own personal floor (and wasn’t that a weird discovery, he had his own floor) to book tickets to Europe the next day for him and Sam. They had been searching the States; it was time to look elsewhere.

* * *

 

He is biologically thirty two on his one hundredth birthday, and he is happier than he can ever remember being. Stark throws him a party again, but instead of inviting everyone famous that Steve didn’t care about, it’s just the team. The team has expanded since Loki’s invasion a few years ago, and Steve couldn’t be prouder of them.

This year hasn’t all been smiles and sunshine. He remembers Sharon calling him in January with the news about Peggy. Logically, he knows he hadn’t been having an asthma attack but it sure as hell felt like it at the time. Her funeral was a very dignified affair, with an honorary twenty one gun salute. He had stood there at attention, thinking about how much Peggy would have hated it.

After the actual ceremony, her family gathered at their home. Steve had bashfully tried to slink off until Sharon insisted he was a part of the family, too. He dragged Bucky along despite his protests. They drank and laughed and told funny stories about her, and he thought that she would’ve been glad to see them celebrating her life instead of mourning her death.  Bucky especially made sure to tell them all about her shooting at Steve after Private Lorraine kissed him.

“You weren’t even there, jerk!” Steve told him.

“It’s still one of my favorite stories,” he replied with a shrug. “And by everyone’s reaction, it’s one of theirs, too.”

He makes sure to tell it again at Steve’s one hundredth birthday party too, much to the team’s delight. Steve tries to cover Bucky’s mouth, but unfortunately Tony picks up where he left off. When Steve asks him how he knows that story, he laughs.

“It was probably one of dad’s best memories of you guys,” he says. “He told it, like, every night. Most kids get a bedtime story about princesses and fluffy animals; I got one about an assassination attempt on Cap.  And I’m glad he picked stories like that instead, because they were so much more fun than what the other kids got.”  Steve thinks this is the first nice thing he’s heard him say about Howard. He wisely decides not to mention that. He also doesn’t say anything about it not actually being an assassination attempt (probably), because he just wants everyone to forget about the story – not that they will, of course.

Natasha pours everyone another round, except for Cap. He gets a special type of Asgardian ale Thor brought specially for him. Apparently his team _really_ wants to see him drunk. Bucky telling stories about the shit they got up to while as drunken teenagers doesn’t help.

When the festivities die down, Steve is moderately tipsy and the rest of the team are at various levels of drunkenness, most of them leaning more towards the “absolutely trashed” end of the spectrum. Sam sits next to him on the couch. “On your left,” he slurs, and then dissolves into giggles. Steve says nothing about the fact that Sam is actually sitting on his right.

“Alright, alright, you guys need to go to bed,” he says.

“JARVIS?” Tony asks. “Where do we keep extra blankets and stuff?”

“In the linen closet, Sir.” The British AI responds. Pepper is probably the soberest one there besides Steve, so she makes her way over and gets enough sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows for everyone. The team curls up together on the floor for the most part. Wanda makes a half-hearted attempt at sleeping on the futon until the rest of the Avengers yell at her to get her ass down here with her team.

“I don’t wanna sleep on the floor,” she protests sleepily. Pietro throws something at her.

“It’s a team building activity,” Bruce says, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“Yes, connect with your teammates by getting a sore back. That makes sense,” she says.

“Still better than shawarma,” he mumbles.

Soon enough, everyone’s down there. Steve vaguely thinks about how glad he is that Stark is rich enough to afford really nice carpeting. Clint and Natasha try to plunk down next to him, one on either side, until Bucky pushes Nat out of the way and curls up with Steve. Clint momentarily considers shuffling over to Bruce’s left side, since Nat has retreated to his right, but decides that moving sounds like too much work right now.

The team is almost all asleep when Bucky looks up and asks him, “So…good birthday?”

Steve gives him a ridiculously large grin which is in no way caused by the alcohol. “The best,” he decides. “Now let’s go to sleep, because if we don’t wake up with the rest of them who knows what they’ll do.” He ignores whatever Bucky’s about to say, shuts his eyes, and falls asleep

**Author's Note:**

> One of the more distasteful moments in my life: Finding a racial/ethnic slurs database online while doing research for this fic. Speaking of which: "Mack" and "Mickey Finn" were, according to the internet, slurs for Irish people during the 1930's. Anyway, thanks for sticking it out til the end of the (line) fic! Please let me know what you thought - what you liked, what I needed to improve on, etc. 
> 
>  [EDIT]: Thanks to debwalsh kindly letting me know, my internet research wasn't completely accurate! It turns out the more common Irish slur is "mick" and the fic has been updated accordingly.


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